C'est La Vie
by Night Rain Illusion
Summary: Comashipping. Post-series. Rated for slash and substance abuse. "Did you know that if a Spoink stops bouncing, its heart will stop and it will die?" An invitation for drinks with darker intentions turns out so, so wrong.


So. If this story has taught me anything, it's that I can't write slash, and should never try to write slash, no matter how much I love a ship. With that said, now you get why it's M, other than also involving alcohol and drugs to an extent. Don't own Pokemon, and should probably never own Pokemon if I'm going to write depressing stuff like this. (Hides in the corner where she belongs)

**C'est La Vie**

There is a crack. Deep down, as if inside your heart and forming a hole of anger and self-pity. Over the past few years, it feels like there is a creature living inside this hole, chewing you up from the inside out. But you don't think about this creature, or at least try not to. But you can't deny that it's changed you. If it wasn't for this creature living in this hole, you wouldn't be spending your late teens, early adulthood secretly lusting after an ex-rival that can only be kept quiet with liquor. To think you of all people would be the type to drink, let alone being an alcoholic, and you only just reached the legal drinking age months ago.

It's interesting, you can't help but muse, that for someone like him, you would think he would be talkative when drunk, but sadly this isn't the case. If anything, he's even more subdued than he was a moment ago, and you can't help the vague amusement that he may or may not have detected from you as he struggles to keep his head up and from hitting the table.

Or maybe that's from when, moments ago, _out of the kindness of your heart_, you poured him another drink, and with a flick of the wrist, had slipped something in that would be enough to keep a _Gyarados_ at relative ease.

The guilty monster that is starting to chew you up inside is subdued with more liquor as you just nod in agreement to anything he _does_ have to say, waiting for the magic three-worded sentence that isn't going to come, even when drunk, apparently. You know it's there, somewhere, being the stubborn idiot he is, and you were hoping you could get him to slip up and say it over a few drinks. (Which, to your surprise, he had actually accepted to have drinks at your place. Never took him for one that was an alcoholic, anyway)

"I agree." you say distractedly to whatever it is he just said, eyes watching his glass carefully, eyes following each time he does pick it up and each time as he sets it back down. He probably just said something stupid and you agreed to it, but whatever it was, it wasn't what you were waiting to hear, so it doesn't matter. It's all just small talk that neither of you are going to remember the next morning.

You're not sure what inspired you to take a risk like this, especially on what you may be planning after this. You're older, sure, you have needs. You like him, love him in fact, and you just _know_ he feels the same, even if he won't say it or act on it, out of fear or a misguided sense of pride. (The same could be said for you, in case it turns out you're wrong) And you were fine with this screwed up relationship, as long as there was some kind of relationship, romantic or not. But lately, when you're around him, your hands seem to shake harder than they should and there's an itch inside your head that you just can't scratch, forcing you to bite your tongue and stop yourself from saying something you're going to regret and spending many nights with your fingers digging into the headboard, which then begs the question of how you know you're not going to regret what you're about to do.

_I won't. He's not going to remember this anyways, the tranquilizing effect that will kick in a few hours later will make sure of that. And, really, if he won't remember it, it's the same as it having never happened in the first place, right?_

_Right_, you tell yourself firmly, as you move closer and absentmindedly reach a hand forward to brush his hair out of his face, to which he doesn't respond to other than a questioning look, to which you just force yourself to smile and offer to top off his half-empty glass. Thinking vaguely of how it would be so easy right now to have your wicked way with him and he wouldn't even know what hit him.

Which is more or less _exactly_ what you're planning on doing, anyway.

The old you would never do something like this, but then again, the old you never had the need to back then. It's bold and wrong, but you keep that voice quiet and from digging your nails into your scalp as you ground your glass into the back of your other hand. Instead you calmly lick your dry lips before speaking.

"I love you", you say aloud as if you're chatting about the weather, which you might as well have been and when you know you love him, but you're curious to see how he would respond to this. He doesn't other than staring at you vaguely with unfocused eyes, and it then occurs to you that maybe you added a bit too much earlier. He probably has no idea what you just said. Figures. He mutters something indistinct, but you catch it anyway, and it's enough to make you freeze slightly in terror, but then you reason out that he has no idea what he's saying either, let alone what you're saying. He couldn't of said-

He suddenly goes slack, your shoulder quickly catching his head from connecting with the table.

"Are you alright?" you ask blankly, as if this was a regular thing.

He mutters something vaguely unintelligible, which puts you at a slight ease. If he's still able to talk, then he'll be alright. You swallow hard as you awkwardly hug him to you and close your eyes, willing to pretend that everything you're doing and are going to do is the liquor talking. Maybe if you're lucky, you won't remember either when you wake up the next morning. Wouldn't that be something?

"You should probably lay down." you suggest, and it disgusts you how empty and devoid of emotion you are as you slowly pull him up, in an awkward bridal-style.

He doesn't resist, he probably _can't_, as you move into the next room and lay him down on the bed, pausing to look him over. He is still awake. But when you wave a hand in front of his face and notice his eyes that are dilated to an abnormal decree and vaguely consider the darkness of the room, his mind is most likely elsewhere.

"Are you going to be alright?" It isn't too late to back away and leave him be. It isn't too late to stop.

When he doesn't respond at first, panic floods in and you have half a mind to run away as far as possible, until he finally responds with "...hot...", and finally seems to be able to focus on you, if for a second.

Your face goes red and after a few deep breaths, you reach forward, suddenly feeling vaguely embarrassed. "Here, I'll take off your shirt for you."

He's surprisingly compliant, so much so that it's rather scary, even more so when he frees himself of all other remaining clothes without any shame, which causes you to look at anywhere but him, instead focusing on the alarm clock on the bedside table that's bleeding red in the dark. Minutes to midnight.

Finally, the alcohol has dulled your senses enough to look, to reach out and touch him, to take what's yours, nearly going into shock when he wraps his legs around your back and pulls you closer, and in one fell swoop, all remaining doubts are shoved into the deepest part of your mind in that one second as you hastily undress and try to take in the feel of his feverish skin against your own as you grind your crotch against his own.

He gasps, mutters fragments of sentences that you could care less about as you think somewhat bitterly _'Oh shut up already'_, and you silence him with your mouth, forgetting that neither of you are being yourselves, kissing him as hard as you humanly can (hard enough that it could bruise, if the fingers digging into wrists, backs, and shoulders don't) and willing to pretend that the reason he is doing the same is because he wants this as well. In your head or maybe in his ear you're telling him how much you love him, how you would go to the ends of the earth for him, that you've never loved someone like him; in stark contrast to your previous actions that make it sound like a bad joke. But you don't care; all that matters is _this_, right now.

_I bet he's imagining his other rival_, you can't help but laugh a little. Now _that_ would of been a bad joke.

As fast as it starts, it quickly comes to an end as you press the side of your face against his sweaty cheek as you climax; him following you a few moments after. You can feel his every intake of breath under you; you can even feel the slightly erratic beat of his heart. After a few minutes of just lying there, he's perfectly still, having fallen asleep. Yet his heart still sounds erratic, but not as much as a moment before. It vaguely reminds you of a Spoink, humorously enough.

Just as you are about to kiss his sleeping face, an old childish memory surfaces to mind, of a black-haired boy tapping a finger on the mauve-haired boy's shoulder with a smile like the sun as he attempts to get the other to look at him and impress the other with how oh so smart he is, "_I know plenty of things! For example, did you know_, _that Spoinks bounce to keep their hearts beating? That's why they never stop bouncing!"_

_If they stop, they'll die._

Suddenly it feels as if the haze has cleared from your mind, hands pressed against your mouth in an attempt to keep yourself from throwing up in disgust from realizing what you've done. You spare a glance at him, at the room around you, silent witnesses to it all. Horrified, you move as far away from him as possible, biting down as hard as you can on your tongue to stop from crying out.

_No. No. It's not me. I didn't-_

You're sure that you can taste blood, but it doesn't stop the grief and hate you feel running through your body. But the metallic taste does snap some sense into you. He won't remember. Tomorrow he'll wake up with no memory of this. You're the only one that's going to remember any of this. It's the same as it never happening.

You manage to calm down and pull yourself together, calmly putting your clothes back on, and strolling into the kitchen to sit at the table, waiting for sunrise, which seems to be forever away. You'll sit, finger tracing the rim of your coffee cup that you are hoping with sober you up, wondering what the hell has gotten into you lately. How you can't sleep these days and tonight didn't help at all. How the itch in your head intensifies when he's around. How stupid you were to want something more than what you were already gifted to have. _Maybe he's right, you **are** an idiot._

When he finally does wake up (which by time your coffee's gone cold and you're all but empty again) and comes into the room, (fully clothed, thank god) you put on a false cheerfulness and offer coffee. He shoots a glare at you, hand to his head from the hangover. You joke about he can't hold his liquor, to which he just snaps at you to shut up. But you still laugh anyway, hard enough that you might have been sobbing rather than laughing. He responds by chucking the nearest couch cushion at you, to which you duck your head and listen to it knock the china off the counter. The sound of glass hitting the ground causes the other to wince though from the noise as he sits down in front of you, taking the offered coffee.

"Aren't you going to get that?" he asks, and you almost didn't hear the question because you were too busy contemplating on whether it was possible to drown yourself in your coffee and get away with it.

"Maybe later." you say distractedly, and he raises an eyebrow at this as you lift your cup and pretend that it's an ordinary morning after from drinking. You want to ask, out of morbid curiosity, if he remembers anything from last night. Anything at all.

"Ash."

You nearly drop your cup in surprise; he's actually beating you to it first. And he used your name instead of "idiot". Which usually meant bad things.

_Oh god, he knows what happened last night and what I did._ But you catch the coffee cup from slipping out of your hands, pretending to look puzzled. "Yes?"

"I didn't do or say anything weird last night, right?"

_I wish_, but you bite your tongue before you can respond with such. Reopening the wound.

"No. Why? Afraid you confessed your undying love for me?"

He nearly drops his own cup, face turning red as he responds with an indignant "NO" and starts glaring daggers at you. You laugh because you're supposed to laugh at this, even though the creature is active again and tearing your insides up again from deep in its hole. It's a miracle you haven't cried yet.

"So nothing happened last night, right?" he asks, watching you suspiciously.

In that moment, you think about confessing about having taken advantage of him (something which, if you had _really_ been as close as you thought you were, was something you should have never done) and having your wicked way with him, but instead you swallow enough coffee in hopes of washing out the familiar metallic taste in your mouth. "Not at all."

He stares at you for the longest moment, reading your face to see if he can detect the lie. After a few minutes of awkward silence, he looks away, mildly pleased. "Good."

You watch him carefully, flinching when he rubs at his wrist where you're sure you can see finger-shaped bruises, which causes your fingers to dig into the table.

He looks over the rim of his cup, noticing this. "What's your problem?"

"Hmm? Nothing. Just didn't get any sleep last night." Your fingers relax.

It's quiet for a few minutes, before you find yourself speaking up.

"Hey Paul."

"What?"

_Remember when we first met? Remember when we were rivals and you used to call me pathetic all the time? Remember how we used to chase after each other? Remember how hard I tried to impress you? Remember the Sinnoh League? Remember when I won and you finally admitted that I was a worthy opponent? Remember how we would bump into each other sometimes afterward? Remember when we ended up living in the same town by coincidence? Remember Pikachu's funeral last year and how you of all people actually showed up? Remember how everyone seemed to go their seperate ways and it was just us left? Remember last night when I confessed that I love you? Remember what we did? Remember what I did?_

"Did you know that if a Spoink stops bouncing, its heart will stop and it will die?"

Paul gives you an odd look, wondering why the hell you brought that up, "Didn't you ask me that once a long time ago?"

"Yeah. I think I was trying to impress you by showing off how much I knew about Pokemon."

"Hmm. Too bad it didn't work." he muses, hand in his purple hair in thought and from the residing hangover, when his expression says otherwise.

Of course not. You could never impress him. Nothing would ever change.

And maybe that was fine. At least he didn't hate you anymore and you were practically friends.

But...

You look down; ruefully you notice that it appears to be raining, judging from the sound of the rain overhead falling into the gutters and into your coffee. There appears to be a leak in the ceiling, or maybe the leak was coming from elsewhere. You ignore his horrified stare at the sudden torrent, choosing instead to look up at the ceiling, searching for a nonexistent crack, a smile that doesn't match your eyes and pretending that you can't feel anything and that you can be just as heartless as he is, if not more so. You try not to think about how much you wish for his tongue down your throat (again) or a specific three-worded sentence whispered into the air as casual as the rain falling outside and at the same as non-casual as the rain falling inside.

_[You don't notice the movement, of the table scratching against the floor as a dark shape moves closer in front of you, or the feeling of cold hands twitching inches away from your sweaty, shaking hands, as if unsure if they want to be there or not, before finally settling on top of, questioningly, as if concerned, like how a friend should be. Maybe if you had your eyes open, you would of noticed that he was frowning or the way he too seems to be searching for that crack in the ceiling, but at the same time knowing that the real crack was inside the person in front of him, but not quite caring enough to ask. He's just not that kind. __Like he'd understand, anyway.]_

You take a calming breath, devoid of emotion when you respond, pushing that memory back where it belongs.

__

_"I love you."_

"I don't."

The air suddenly tastes salty.

"Yeah. Too bad indeed."


End file.
